


Dust to Dust

by GingerBreton



Series: Then I Met You [7]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Backstory, Banter, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, First Kiss, Flirting, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, MacCready POV, Mutual Pining, So much flirting, catching feels, non-canon origin sole survivor, past domestic violence - briefly referenced, sole survivor is not nate/nora
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:54:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28181970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerBreton/pseuds/GingerBreton
Summary: With Mass Pike a thing of the past, MacCready finally finds himself able to look at what’s right in front of him.  Ivy - his partner, his best friend and maybe something more?
Relationships: Robert Joseph MacCready/Female Sole Survivor
Series: Then I Met You [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1813063
Comments: 18
Kudos: 35





	Dust to Dust

**Author's Note:**

> Let me in the walls  
> You’ve built around  
> We can light a match  
> And burn them down
> 
> —Dust to Dust, The Civil Wars
> 
> \----
> 
> I've treated myself to plenty of self-indulgence here. We're getting quite a few character lore drops in this fic: MacCready is finally learning some significant things about Ivy's past and in turn he's sharing a little bit of his.
> 
> Quick note to avoid confusion, for this fic Lucy MacCready isn't Lucy from Littlelamplight.

Condensation fogged the broken bus windows, beads of dew gathering to trickle the length of spiderweb cracks in the glass. MacCready lay still, not quite willing to open his eyes—caught in the no-man’s land between sleep and waking. His alarm clock, the dulcet squawks of crows judging him from the forest below. 

Every bit of him ached; every muscle, every bone, every goddamn cell. It was hard to tell if he’d been wrestling with consciousness for hours or just a few very tedious minutes. MacCready shifted his weight, the mattress springs, which dug firmly into his back, creaked beneath his weight. It was almost like being back in Sanctuary, but not quite. The air was crisp and icy, no hints of farmyard here, just a lingering scent of ozone caught on gusts that moaned through the cracked windows. 

The memory of where he was arrived quickly, after all it hadn’t been that many years since he’d called the interchange home—the implications took a little longer to filter through. 

_Shit._

Mac’s eyes flew open, his usual tack of playing dead until he’d absorbed his surroundings was swept aside in a rush of cold sweat. He’d fallen asleep. _Asleep._ On his watch. Here of all goddamn places.

The fight came back in a flood—like the taunts hadn’t haunted his dreams in those few reckless hours he’d slept—tensing his muscles in another useless fit of anger. 

_Hey, MacCready, sorry to hear about your wife. What kind of man can’t even keep his family safe?_

Winlock laughed—bellowed loud enough that it bounced off the highway above, off every car around him. The lingering echoes still hung in MacCready's head. He’d laughed like the thought of Lucy being torn to pieces was the funniest thing he’d heard in years. 

The Gunner goaded him, played his temper like a favourite game of cards, like he was that same angry 17 year old kid—and it worked.

He’d stopped watching his partner’s back. He hadn’t kept at range—like some damn rookie who hadn’t been doing this crap since he was 10. He’d made every wrong decision in that fight all because the urge to beat that son-of-a-bitch with his bare hands was more than he could control. 

And it’d only gotten worse.

Sucking in gulps of freezing air, MacCready’s heart pounded against his ribcage as panic set in. With every gasp he could still feel the iron grip of the power armoured fist wrapped tight around his throat.

 _You’re a curse, MacCready. You’re going to get that pretty little thing killed too. But not before we have some fun with her—Quincy doesn't need her in one piece, just breathing. Think I’ll cut those thieving hands off first._

He’d lost the last of his air trying to scream bloody murder at the Gunner, wrapped in rage and fear, breaking his knuckles trying to beat his way free. His vision turned black just as bullets began to fly. 

MacCready took a slow steady breath in—keenly aware of the tremor in his muscles—and held it for a moment, concentrating on the scene around him; the beads of condensation trickling down broken windows, the way stray shafts of sunlight flickered across the ceiling above him, the dry creaking of the husks masquerading as trees that surrounded the highway. He released the breath and repeated—calmly drinking in more of his surroundings with each passing breath until he recognised every sight and sound, until his pulse had stopped thundering so violently through his veins. 

He was still alive. Winlock and Barnes were history. If not for the Quincy talk, MacCready would’ve been able to walk away from this a completely free man. There was no way _he_ could be linked to this, but now...

Looked like the Gunners might be out of his hair, but not hers. 

The weight on his chest shifted, leaving icy cold patches where once warm limbs had been coiled. Ivy sighed in her sleep, the hand that had been draped across his waist now tangled itself in his scarf. She lay tucked into his side so neatly they could’ve been puzzle pieces. With his chest as a pillow, MacCready couldn’t help wondering if his panicked heartbeat had stirred the sigh from her lips.

The lingering fears fighting like dogs over scraps for his attention just moments before gave up in the face of the distraction sleeping soundly at his side. His worries would still be there, ready to emerge from the darker recesses of his mind at the worst possible moment, but for now something more inviting had held his attention - Ivy.

Her usually tidy hair was a mess of waves falling around her face—except for one perfect curl that bobbed stubbornly by her cheek. Black dust powdered below her eyes where it broke free from dark lashes, adding a midnight scattering of freckles amongst the ones that already patterned her cheeks. Lips slightly parted, her breathing was soft and measured. 

In the low light cast across the bus floor it was more difficult to see the marks the day before had left on her. But it was possible. Mac stared at her; at the swollen jaw, at the lip that still hadn’t healed properly, at the pink staining her hair—caught by the hazy memory of what she’d done.

She was crazy. An idiot. A bloody, bruised, beautiful idiot.

Ivy had looked right at him across the highway—worthless, _losing_ , half choked to death—and she didn’t do what any sane person would—leave him to his fate. She stayed. She decided his life was worth more...

MacCready still couldn’t reconcile it; the breath-stealing thought that she cared enough to risk everything, and the absolute crushing terror which followed that realisation, knowing he could’ve gotten her killed.

He didn’t deserve that kind of loyalty. 

Wincing at the sudden tug of his scarf against his bruised throat, Mac threaded his fingers through Ivy’s and unwound them from the fabric. Her grip had tightened as her body tensed, brows furrowing as dreams turned sour. He shushed her until her breathing settled again, cradling her hand in his, running his thumb over the soft skin.

She was no wastelander, that was for sure. He smiled, tracing his thumb along the length of slender fingers far better suited to her old work as an artist than the mercenary trade. Other than a few recent cuts and grazes, and a slowly developing callus on her trigger finger, her hands were practically unblemished—an obvious sign to anyone with the skill to notice, that there was no way she’d been born into this life.

He’d judged her for it when they first met. _Damn vaulties, never did a proper day’s work in their lives_ sang the judgemental chorus in his mind, just loud enough to drown out the mutinous thoughts of how pleasant her skin felt against his.

But that wasn’t her only tell. The wasteland didn’t breed patience or generosity—folks like Garvey were rare and didn’t tend to last long—and Ives, well she stuck out like a sore thumb. And then she opened her mouth and any pretence that she was anything but—what did that old bat call her, ‘ _a woman out of time_ ’, —he rolled his eyes just thinking about it—those went flying out the window. Her voice was soft and low, peppered with phrases nobody had heard since the bombs dropped.

She belonged thousands of miles away and hundreds of years ago, but here she was.

The dawn oranges having faded to pink, the sky was getting properly light, despite the efforts of the angry grey clouds crowding the sky around Boston. MacCready dared to slide his hand free from Ivy’s to check the time - 7am. They needed to head out soon—despite his reassurances the night before, he couldn’t guarantee there weren’t more Gunners just waiting to return from patrol. 

Careful not to disturb his partner too soon, he unhooked his arm from where it’d wound its way around her waist in the night—a cowardly attempt to disguise how they’d curled together so easily as they slept. 

“Wake up, sleepyhead.”

Mac dipped his head to murmur in her ear, smiling at the frown crossed her features as she grumbled quietly at the disturbance. Ivy squeezed closer, burying her face in his neck, far more stubborn in her sleep than when she was awake—he made a note to tease her about it later. If he remembered. 

Things were getting distracting. 

Her sleeping refusals to wake hummed pleasantly against his neck, sending a flurry of goosebumps across his flesh. 

MacCready swallowed. 

“It’d be nice if you listened to me every once in a while,” he smirked in reply to the muffled protests—once he found his voice again. He was pretty darn sure she’d groused a definite ‘no’ in there somewhere. 

Ivy didn’t properly stir until he tapped the tip of her nose. Bleary eyes blinked up at him. In the shadows of early morning, her deep brown irises were almost black—dark enough that some unsuspecting idiot who stared too long might get lost in them. 

Luckily he was immune to that kind of thing. 

“I do listen,” Ivy huffed, pushing up off his chest, surprisingly unruffled, or maybe just drowsily oblivious of their tangled sleeping arrangement. 

She sat up and ruffled a hand back through her hair, the pinkish-orange glow of dawn light filtering through her white locks like a halo. Arching her back, Ivy stretched, wincing at a click in her shoulder.

If she looked back now Mac’d be in trouble. He was staring—blinking, half-stunned and not just by the rare flash of winter sun. But who could blame him because _damn_ that silhouette against the morning light was a sight for sore eyes. Say what you like about Vault-tec, but they knew how to make an outfit that clung to all the right places. 

And if that little smile tugging at the corner of her mouth was anything to go by, she might have just spotted him committing her to memory. 

MacCready swallowed again. Hard. 

He’d come worryingly close to kissing the woman sat mesmerizingly rubbing the kinks out of her neck, far too many times recently. And even more dangerously, he was beginning to think she wanted him to.

Ivy paused in her stretching, a yawn bringing her hand swiftly to her lip with a wince, before finally seeming to take in their location. She was usually more on the ball, but the fight—and the rads from the storm—had taken it out of them both. 

“Did you keep watch all night?”

“Yeah.” There was no point in worrying her. Her head had finally slumped onto his shoulder around midnight, and there was no way he was only going to let her get two hours sleep, not after what she’d been through. So he never woke her. “Nothing came by here.”

“No Gunners?” 

MacCready rolled onto his side, circling some of the stiffness out of his shoulders—now that his limbs were free, he was struck by the desperate craving for a cigarette. Propped up on his elbow, he dug around in his pockets for an open pack and his lighter. 

“Not that I saw,” he mumbled past the smoke. Flicking a mischievous glance her way, he added, “But I didn’t get the best view, I was a little pinned down.”

Now the cap dropped and colour flooded Ivy’s cheeks, a pretty blush that matched the blood stains still clinging to the tips of her hair. 

“I—oh, sorry about that. Cold last night, I guess.” Her breath clouded in the air in agreement, attempting to fill the spot she’d just swiped clear on the bus window looking out towards the gunner camp, in an attempt to avoid his eye. 

“Damn right it was. Thought we might freeze solid there for a minute.” Ignoring the raw sting of cigarette smoke in his throat, he pulled his scarf up to his ears giving a theatrical shiver. “How’s that for an end to our adventures, turning into a giant ice cube. Lost to the centuries in the back of a bus.”

“Been there, done that,” Ivy laughed, making a bad attempt to hide the wince when she smiled. 

MacCready didn’t miss it—he didn’t miss a lot about her these days. He pushed himself up to get a better look at the damage in the cold light of day.

Most of the swelling had gone down along her jaw but the bruise remained, starting to fade to yellow at the edges—the stimpak had done something to speed the healing at least, which was more than could be said for her lip. 

The butt of the laser rifle had split a gash from her lip to her chin—it was obvious what did it now, he could see the distinctive ridges in the bruising, he’d ended up with a few of his own during his time with the Gunners. Despite his attempt to patch it the night before—hopefully she’d forgive him for that—the edges of the wound were raised and pink, and he’d put caps on it being warm to the touch. Hell, it’d got infected.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.” _Liar_. The way her eyes were reluctant to leave the highway to meet his, told him that she hadn’t forgotten the Gunners’ threats. “Ready to get the hell away from here though.”

“Right you are, boss.” 

MacCready groaned getting to his feet, the cramped space wasn’t quite enough for him to work the crick out of his back.

“ _Boss_? I thought we’d dropped that.” Ivy flashed him a look back over her shoulder as attempted to secure her leather armour at the back—he obliged. 

“Angel...”

“Better…” she hummed, fiddling at the fastenings on her belt.

“What you did yesterday-- ”

“Uh oh.” She watched his reflection curiously in the glass. “Why do I feel like I’m about to get told off?”

“You know you didn’t _have_ to help me? Right?” Bit late for this talk, MacCready. You should probably have given her the get out clause rather than the hard sell before this whole thing went down. “You’re a soft touch. I know you think you have to help when people ask.”

“Bobby-- ” MacCready’s jaw went slack, his brows forming a stunned arch. Ivy had never called him that before, nobody had. Looked like she’d caught herself off guard too, she froze momentarily in place staring off out the window with a look that could only be described as _oh no_. She pulled herself together faster than he did, turning to lean back against the window while the name ‘Bobby’ still whispered in his ear. “This is the first thing I’ve done because it was important to me too.”

Why? He suddenly desperately wanted to know _why_ something so personal to him was important to her. But he couldn’t think of a way to ask without sounding ungrateful or worse. 

“I’m not sure I’m a fan of your distraction technique,” he managed after a moment.

“I thought it worked rather well.”

 _Too well._ She hadn’t heard their threats and he’d never tell her what they said they’d do.

“Please.” MacCready’s voice came out weaker than he meant it to. “Don’t put yourself in danger for me.” 

Ivy sighed and reached out, parting the scarf pulled up around his neck, her fingers traced the marks left behind by the power armour gauntlet. 

“I’m not sure I had much of a choice.” She tucked the scarf back into place and smoothed out his collar, her hands resting briefly on his chest. “Let’s get out of here, hmm?”

“No time for breakfast, huh?” A sudden loud growl from his stomach asked the question rather more effectively than he did. 

“As much as I love breakfast in bed.” Ivy shot the lumpy mattress a disdainful look, while he foolishly made a mental note. “ _Someone_ ate all the noodles.” She grabbed her pack and headed for the door, attempting to shoulder it open—unsuccessfully.

“We have to wait to get all the way back to Diamond City?” Mac whined, grabbing his own gear he moved Ivy out of the way, and kicked the door in just the right place for it to jerk open. He winked at her. “You loosened it.”

He came up short when he met her nonchalantly stuck out leg blocking the exit to the bus. She wore a familiar expression, one she got when she came up with a _wonderful_ completely unthought through idea.

“If you think you can hold off a couple more hours without wasting away entirely, I have an idea for a detour.” She smiled indulgently when he pouted and clutched his stomach. “There’ll be caps in it.”

MacCready leant forward, arm resting on the door frame above her, fixing her with a mock skeptical look.

“Alright, I’ll humour you. What’s the plan? And do I have any say in it?”

“I thought we could grab that gear for Moe Cronin on the way back. And of course you have a say, we’re partners.” She batted her eyelids. 

“I say no.”

“Tough, we’re going.” Ivy ducked out from his shadow and onto Mass Pike, rifle at the ready.

* * *

MacCready leant back against an old roofless garage, ringing water out of his duster. How come every time Ivy wanted to take a detour to save time or make them some extra caps he ended up crotch deep in stagnant water. 

Visibility was getting sketchy with maybe an hour left of what little sun they had. That time was rapidly melting away while Ivy knelt by her pack, trying to cram as much in there as she could. 

After a tussle with some mirelurks, they’d found the card, the mitt and the ball for Moe, not to mention a couple of bats, a bunch of junk—she could never resist—and a load of ammo. Not all of it was useful, but it was all sellable. 

Problem was she’d done the exact same thing at Mass Pike. They were loaded up with scrounged laser pistols, fusion cells, more ammo, even more chems, and she was wasting time trying to decide what to leave behind.

“Do you really need all that duct tape?” Mac smirked at Ivy’s outraged expression, like he’d suggested she leave behind a child.

“This whole world is held together by duct tape and a prayer. We are _not_ leaving the duct tape,” she huffed. “Maybe I could stick it to me…”

Stomach growling and tired of her messing about, he sauntered forward carefully avoiding the banks of the flooded estate—not that his boots would dry off any time soon.

“If you want to carry all that stuff, you should at least let me carry some of it for you,” he drawled, folding his arms across his chest. 

“Excuse me?”

Ivy stopped in her tracks and stared up at him, her gaze flicking up and down him in a way that made him falter in his stride, shifting nervously on the spot, confusion clouding his features.

“I said, do you need me to take anything?”

She dropped her gear, got up and walked over to him, starting to slowly pace a close circle around where he stood. “Robert Joseph MacCready, did you just offer to help carry my worthless crap?”

“Well if you’re going to make a big deal about it—”

His complaints curled into a started laugh when Ivy caught him by the chin, tilting his head at all angles, examining him closely like he was a brahmin on market day. He twisted, trying to keep an eye on her, on that ridiculous serious expression—it was only a little betrayed by the smile trying to tug at the corners of her mouth. He let out an indignant “ _hey”_ when she whipped off his cap, tipping his head forward to ruffle her fingers through his hair, pushing it back along the hairline.

“What the heck are you doing?” he laughed when she unfolded his arms and pushed them up above his head, twirling him on the spot. 

MacCready snatched back his hat as Ivy attempted to frisk him, squirming under her playful touch, trying not to let on when she found a ticklish spot. 

“Checking you for a serial number. My mercenary would never offer to carry this shit. You have to be a synth replacement.”

“ _Your_ mercenary—” Cat-like grin spreading across his face, he caught her hands, fingers twining between hers before she had a chance to check the bottom of his shoes. “—would appreciate a little more faith. And a little less manhandling.”

“Oh really?” There was so much mischief dancing in those big brown eyes as she tried to wriggle her hands free and continue her thorough examination.

“You really think they’re going to write “Institute” on the bottom of my boot like I’m a toy?” he teased, as she tried to slip her hands free behind her back, tugging him closer in the process. 

“Just covering all my bases.”

Verging on breathless from their tussle, Ivy’s eye contact wavered, flitting away down to his lips and then off somewhere into the distance. She’d done the same the night before, not been able to hold his eye while they sat in darkness watching the storm play out. 

Mac had some ideas about why. Bad but encouraging ideas.

Ivy’s lips twitched into a slight pout as she looked out over his shoulder, it was a tell of hers but for the life of him he couldn’t put his finger on which one. 

“More hatchlings,” she interrupted as he racked his brain, sneaking a hand free surprisingly easily to reach for the pistol at her thigh.

MacCready reluctantly released her other hand to reach for the rifle on his back, turning to see...nothing. A hand snatched the hat back off his head and by the time he’d spun back around Ivy was already grabbing her overladen pack off the ground and sprinting back in the direction of Boston, laughing as she went.

“Last one to Diamond City buys dinner!”

“Hey!” he yelled after her retreating form. “You cannot have the hat!”

_No matter how damn cute you look in it._

* * *

It was dark by the time their footsteps rang out of the stairs into Diamond City, the weather turned to shit as soon they passed into the outskirts of Boston, and it’d been getting steadily worse ever since.

MacCready had been lucky to reclaim his cap at least, pulling it down low as a desperate attempt to keep the rain off his hair. Less luckily, the small waterfall of drips pouring off the brim were making it hard to see once they headed out of the shelter of the tunnel and down into the marketplace.

They’d split up at the bottom of the steps, Mac sending Ivy to see Dr Sun— _“I’m getting sick of you wincing,” he’d smiled. “Go. I’ll meet you in there.”_ —and he’d gone to try his best at haggling over laser pistols.

The thrum of rain on metal rooftops and gushing down drain pipes drowned out the pockets of conversation from leery shoppers huddling out of reach out of the downpour, as he picked his way across the marketplace, his pack significantly lighter. Even with the weather to complain about, and him doing nothing more exciting selling crap at Commonwealth Weaponry, it did nothing to stop the judgemental looks being thrown his way—Diamond City never changed.

Shooting a brief sneer in the direction of the nearest group of huddled snobs, Mac shrugged off the unwanted attention. Stomach growling at the damn near irresistible scent of fresh noodles wafting on the damp air, he took shelter under one of the awnings around Power Noodles.

“Nan-ni shimasho-ka?”

“I wish, Taka. Just got one more errand to run first. I’ll be back, don’t run out!”

With that he pulled his collar up around his neck and left the warmth and tempting smells behind to dash to the Mega Surgery Centre. The open section of the clinic was empty, all wares cleared away for the evening with the doctor retreating inside.

MacCready tried the door to the main building—it was open. He half considered knocking before scoffing at the idea and letting himself in. The smell hit him first, far stronger inside than it was out front—bleach, bunsen burners, medicinal chem ingredients—it poked at memories of similar clinics back home. He’d found himself in an office, well lit, lined with shelves stocked with crumbling textbooks, recovered journals, and a butt load of weird old medical paraphernalia. He prodded at a few shiny doodads and gave a cursory examination to some ugly ceramic head with writing all over it.

It was all probably worth a few caps, and ordinarily he’d have been stowing any bits that wouldn’t be missed into his pockets, but the further into the warren of rooms he went, the harder it was to get over the smell of the place—like antiseptic and metal, and weirdly, stale coffee. It replaced the hungry gurgle churning his insides with something else entirely.

“—and the old break isn’t causing you any more trouble?”

Mac stopped his rummaging. That was Dr Sun’s voice, coming from behind a half-open door.

“It just aches a little when I’ve used it a lot.”

And that was Ivy.

He pushed the door open a little more. Lounging in the threshold, he was met with an uncomfortably familiar scene: bright lights shining off trays lined scalpels and syringes, rows of chems in cupboards and a strong enough bleach odour to burn his nostrils. He’d seen far too many doctors in far too many rooms like this before leaving D.C.

 _Was it warm in here?_ His stomach gave another malicious churn.

“And headaches? No new onset ones? Anything unusual or persistent?”

“No.” Ivy perched on a stool in the centre of the room, her eyes trained on Dr Sun’s finger as he moved it across in front of her vision, continuing his questioning as he did so. “I—there are still things I don’t remember.”

“You suffered a significant head injury, Miss Kendrick, and there’s no way of knowing the effect that two centuries in cryo might have had—” Dr Sun paused, spotting him in the doorway and nodded for him to take a seat.

What the heck was he talking about, she hadn’t— _oh_ , this was from before.

Mac found a perch of his own by the wall, uncomfortably close to the gleaming instruments and nauseating smells. He swallowed down a sudden excess of saliva coating his tongue, and tried to wipe the sweat from his palms off onto his duster without anyone noticing. Ivy’s lip was looking better at least, although he had a sinking feeling it had something to do with a slightly bloodied scalpel and a spent stimpak on the tray next to her.

MacCready’s wandering attention was snatched back to the centre of the room the second the hiss left Ivy’s lips.

Dr Sun was holding her head still, his fingertips bracing her temples while he pressed his thumbs into different points on her face, and she was flinching whenever those jabbing thumbs got too close to her scar. His stomach lurched again.

He’d seen far too much of this—of poking and prodding and ‘hmm’-ing from these self-righteous bastards who knew _fuck all_ . He’d taken Duncan to doctor after doctor and every single damn one of them stared and jabbed and prodded until his son was bawling. Until Mac was nearly bawling too. _All for nothing_. For an ‘I don’t know’ and a bunch of caps.

As the examination went on he glowered down at the floor, nausea rything in his stomach and sweat starting to soak his neck. Ivy’s knuckles grew white as she gripped the rim of her seat. He didn’t realise he was doing the same until the stab of pain and trickle of blood showed he’d reopened a gashed knuckle.

Mac’s already stretched temper snapped the second Ivy’s lip trembled.

“Hey. Do you really need to do that?” he growled.

“Excuse me?”

Dr Sun lifted his hands a fraction of an inch away from his patient’s and fixed MacCready with a neutral stare. He’d seen the kind before, like the asshole thought he was so much freaking smarter than him—all it did was make him madder.

“Can’t you see you’re upsetting her?”

“Mac, it’s ok. We’re nearly done.” He ignored the pleading in Ivy’s eyes. He knew better. At least he thought he did.

“Any pain?” Choosing to ignore him, Dr Sun went back to his prodding. But Mac wasn’t done yet.

“Maybe she wouldn’t be in pain if you weren’t jabbing at her.”

The doctor turned his full attention on MacCready—arms folded across his chest, sour glare burning into him.

“Are you a doctor, Mr...MacCready was it? Did you train as a medic?”

“Did you?” MacCready spat back. This wasn’t pre-war Boston, there weren’t universities. These people were just chem merchants and butchers.

Dr Sun didn’t raise his voice, he didn’t need to. The acid in his tone was enough to permanently scar anyone on the receiving end.

“Do you know how to check the lasting effects of a head injury?”

“I-- ”

“Do you know how to properly treat a wound—”

“Well—I—of course I damn well do—”

“—In a way that doesn’t lead to infection and permanent scarring.”

MacCready gawped, fumbling for words, anything to shut that pompous asshole up, to deny—did he really give her another scar?

“No, I didn’t think so. Now if you’d kindly let me do my job.”

Stunned and sickened, MacCready cursed under his breath and left. The door slammed shut just as he heard Ivy call after him. He didn’t go back. He did smash that stupid ceramic head on his way out though.

* * *

In the shelter of the outer-clinic, MacCready huddled out of the rain, third cigarette in hand, waiting for the nicotine to kick in and calm his nerves or ease his guilt—whatever, so long as it slowed his pulse.

He shouldn’t have gone off like that but ever since Duncan got sick—he didn’t trust ‘em, any of ‘em. Well, he trusted Carys, but even she couldn’t fix his boy.

Rubbing his hands together against the cold brought more pain than warmth, the smoky air he’d blown into his palms stung the freshly reopened wounds—probably should have argued _after_ he got his knuckles patched up. What a great opportunity to show off how useless he was at looking after injuries.

The door creaked behind him but he didn’t turn, he didn’t need to. The lack of footsteps could only mean one person.

“I promise, he is a good doctor...for the apocalypse.” Ivy appeared by his side, looking more concerned about him than shaken. “Seems to do all the things they did before the war, including getting snippy if anyone questions how he does his job. And he does it all on the cheap.”

“I’m sorry about in there,” MacCready mumbled, throwing a sidelong glance her way. “I’ve just had some trouble with doctors in the past.”

She didn’t ask, but she _looked_ , eyes skimming over his features—reading what she could from his face. Part of him wished she would ask, a little voice that whispered he could just tell her about Duncan now, ask for help.

But another voice said no—a sickly selfish one. The same voice that told him Lucy would leave if she ever found out he was a Gunner, told him Ivy would never look at him the same way again. She’d leave too, or worse, he’d just become another wasteland charity case to her. Another loser she was obliged to help.

Mac didn’t notice her slip her hand into his until he was squeezing it.

“I know things are different from before, but 200 years was a long time to go without a check-up.” Ivy let out a shaky laugh, totally devoid of humour—completely misreading his silence as a need to explain herself. “ _Physically,_ apparently I seem to be in good working order. For an out of date popsicle. But this” —her free hand pointed vaguely at her head and choked out another harsh little laugh— “one of the guards did mention Parsons might still be standing.”

Her gaze flitted anxiously around the market, scanning nervously for judgemental eyes and eavesdroppers. For once MacCready was glad of the pouring rain and the closing stalls. It kept the market quiet—even Diamond City Security seemed less inclined to patrol.

“Talk to me…”

Ivy settled against the wall next to him, keeping her eyes on the square.

“I—it’s just—” She stopped and took a deep breath. The voice that came out once she collected herself was cold and steady. “Sometimes none of this seems real. And it _terrifies_ me. I want it to be real.” Her fingers locked tightly with his. “I want you to be real.”

It was rare to find himself at a loss for words, and under any other circumstances Ivy probably would have laughed at him, but MacCready didn’t know what to say. He was real—as real as anything.

Lacking any better ideas, and with his smartmouth failing him, he fell back on action. Mac twisted Ivy to face him, placing her hands on the sleeves of his duster the way she’d done the first time he’d seen her have an episode. If she didn’t recognise the gesture, he’d probably look like a madman, but the glimmer of a smile played on her lips as her fingertips traced the worn seams of his duster made him hope it hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“Couldn’t make me up if you wanted to.” He flashed a lopsided smile then tugged her to his chest, lifting his arms enough so she could wrap hers around his waist, settling against him with a sigh. After a moment’s consideration, he dragged off his cap and secured it in place on her head. _Still cute as ever_. “I’m going to want that back.”

Ivy reached up to adjust the cap, the glimmer of a smile turning into a real one. “We’ll see.”

* * *

If it was possible, the sky had grown blacker while they were in the surgical centre. Even the bright lights that lined the Wall seemed to be sucked in by the weather and the night. Neon shop signs shimmered and glowed in the reflections of puddles rapidly becoming lakes.

Most of the light leaking out into the square came from the strings of bulbs hung under the water-laden awnings of Diamond City’s famous noodle bar -- best grub in town. Best in the ‘wealth if you asked MacCready.

The row of stools lining the bar were usually crammed with Diamond City’s hungry residents at all times of the day—and half the night—with queues loitering around the square waiting to snag a spot come rain or shine. When he’d first come here at 17 he’d wasted so many hours leaning up against the wall outside Fallon’s, a copy of that Publick Occurrences rag in hand while he waited, stomach growling, for a seat.

Though tonight’s December storm seemed to be too much for even the most hardened of noodle-lovers. MacCready slid himself onto a stool, glad to be out of the rain and cold again. His hair, which had given up any attempt to stay up where he tamed it, had flopped onto his forehead and was trailing drips down his cheeks and nose.

Under the cover of Power Noodles’ vibrant red awnings, the whipping damp breeze met with the steaming warmth billowing from the vats of noodles, mingling to fog the air beneath the rain-soaked canopies—giving the rather unpleasant effect of a sauna with the doors open. But it was better than being stood out in the freezing rain.

Hearing a series of quick splashes, Mac turned to see Ivy jumping across the worst of the puddles, glimmers of neon lights glowing against her white hair as she made a dash for cover. Just a few minutes in the rain had soaked her, even his hat was sagging a little miserably under the weight of the downpour. She slipped into the seat at his side.

“Managed to get away, huh?”

“Eventually,” Ivy groused, treating him to a dramatic eye-roll. “He wittered on about priceless baseball memorabilia for about ten minutes with me basically stuck under an overflow before he decided that the rain might actually damage his new toys.”

“...and?” he coaxed.

“And I got us another hundred.”

“That’s my girl.” He slanted a smile her way, not missing the pull at the corner of her lips.

“Nan-ni shimasho-ka?”

The metallic bulk of Takahashi, Diamond City’s premier noodle chef, lumbered over from the forever bubbling vats of noodles to take their order. Mac’s appetite had finally returned, and right now he was pretty sure he could eat a whole cauldron.

“Two please?” Ivy dug in her pouch for some caps.

“Hey.” MacCready caught her arm before she could even think about paying. “I’m buying tonight.”

“Do I need to find new places to check you for serial numbers?”

“Only if you say pretty please.”

MacCready scattered a handful of caps across the counter to the robot, grinning as he snatched the steaming bowls of noodles as soon as they were full. He passed one across to his partner, who seemed more inclined to warm her hands on the hot bowl than actually start her meal. The cold air had coloured her cheeks with a rosy flush, either that or it was the thought of other places she might want to check had.

The wind got up, bouncing the awnings and blowing a wave of rainwater onto their backs. Ivy couldn’t disguise the shiver from him. Those vault suits might be radiation protective or whatever, but they weren’t built for warmth, especially when they were drenched and clinging to the wearer.

“You want my duster?” he asked between mouthfuls.

“I’ll be fine. It’s warm here by the noodles.”

Unwrapping his scarf from his neck, Mac grabbed the edge of her seat and dragged her closer—laughing when she yelped and grabbed on to him to stop herself falling. He slung the mostly dry material around her shoulders and tucked it tight around her, giving her a smug _better?_ look.

“Thank you.”

“‘Welcome,” he mumbled past another mouthful.

Ivy had learnt ages ago that there was no point in trying to talk to him during his first helping of whatever they were eating, he’d be too busy shoveling food in his face. Instead they ate in comfortable silence, the sounds of the rain-wrapped marketplace, the bubbling of pots on the stove and the occasional strains of Diamond City Radio—barely audible over the rain hammering on the eyebot—filling in the lack of conversation.

MacCready’s glances across at his partner’s far more demure enjoyment of her meal was interrupted by the creak of the doors from the little tin shack that acted at the city’s chapel.

“Well would you look at that…” he half-scoffed, a skeptical brow quirking up at the corner.

Mac twisted in his seat to get a better look at the newlyweds being waved off by the pastor—the teacher from the schoolhouse and his… well his wife now apparently. _I now pronounce you man and robot_. This place just got weirder and weirder. Explains the magazine at least. 

It looked like a no fuss affair, just the happy couple, no guests, no flowers, none of that fancy pre-war stuff, and obviously no prissy white dress. He’d seen worn old images of the things plastered on the walls of ruined department stores from here to the Capital Wasteland.

How exactly did a Miss Nanny get dressed up for her big day anyway, he mused as the newlyweds began to meander across the square. Wax and polish?

Not that he could judge. He didn’t dress up to marry Lucy—probably put on a clean shirt. Theirs was a proper shotgun wedding; two excited kids grinning like fools at the pastor, thinking they were some kind of wasteland Romeo and Juliet—conveniently forgetting how that all ended.

There’d been no stuffy white dress then either. Lucy looked utterly beautiful in blue—with an extra glow that only true happiness and being about eight months pregnant in the middle of August could bring.

She’d told him about the whole ‘something old’, ‘something new’ bull—some old time excuse to spend even more money—but he’d dropped everything anyway and gone out on the hunt. He ended up stealing her a pretty powder-blue pre-war dress, figured it covered old, new, ‘borrowed’ and blue—never told her about the stolen part though.

MacCready watched the happy couple pass by, his own bittersweet memory lingering in his smile. _Good for them._ His free hand squeezed the reassuring form of the toy soldier in his breast pocket before going back to digging into his meal.

“I was engaged.”

The noodles missed his mouth entirely, slipping from his suddenly slack grip on his chopsticks, pooling briefly on his thigh before slithering to the floor.

Ivy hadn’t noticed. Her eyes were still trained on the unusual newlyweds who seemed blissfully unaware of the downpour lashing the city around them.

MacCready waited, not daring to press her, worried even the smallest noise might spook her back into silence. He only moved to set down his bowl—his stomach giving an obstinate growl—his full attention fixed on his partner.

She didn’t talk about the past much. Not _her_ past. What little she’d shared had been superficial; a story to make him laugh here, an anecdote about an old job there, but nothing like this. Nothing personal.

Really he should’ve realised sooner—so much for his famous powers of observation, they’d apparently been trained on other things. There on her finger, plain as day now he knew to look for it, was a band of skin which was paler than the rest. She was worrying at it, the way she might if there’d still been a ring there.

 _You must miss him_.

The words came so close to slipping off his tongue—Lucy still lingered in his mind, freshly woken by the same ghosts that’d raised Ivy’s memory—but he caught himself. This wasn’t the same. Something in her body language, _everything_ in it was off. Ivy was tense, sat stock-still like they were waiting out a deathclaw, not eating dinner in the safest settlement in the Commonwealth—that was apart from her hands.

She kept worrying at her ring finger, twisting the skin beneath her fingertips white to red and back, the whole time seeming completely unaware that she was doing it. Her head was lost some place else entirely. 

The injuries. The absences. The fear. 

He swallowed thickly. Ivy didn’t miss the man who gave her that ring. 

“Angel…”

MacCready reached over and caught her hand. Gently blocking her twisting fingers, he ran his thumb over the reddened skin. The spell broke and it was like she’d never been lost to her memories, all her focus back on him. 

Her eyes flicked down to their hands. “There was a ring. It’s at the bottom of the Charles.” The anger that’d knotted in his chest as the dots began to connect unravelled when Ivy smiled. It was fragile but it was for him. “Preston must’ve thought I was barking, I threw it right off the bridge on my first trip here.”

“Myrna probably would’ve given you something for it. A couple of caps at least. If you could prove you weren’t a synth first.”

Nicely handled, MacCready. _You jackass._ But Ivy laughed, looking down to where his thumb rubbed soothing circled against her skin. 

“That thing was bad luck from day one. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.” 

_Break my heart why don’t you, angel_ —she actually looked guilty, like she’d said too much, put too much on him. And here it came, the deflect.

You didn’t get to live in Ivy’s world for very long. She didn’t let you. You’d see a crack of light spill out from a door to the past, try to glimpse through the gap to what lay beyond, but before you could get more than a vague set of images or hear anything clearer than a murmur of conversation, the door would snap shut again. 

“It wasn’t always bad, you know? He was a real charmer back at the start—everyone used to say it, charmer with a capital ‘C’. I even dropped out of college to come here with him.” She glanced around. “To Boston, not to Fenway Park. No amount of proposals would get me to watch baseball.”

He let her have this one, still sat rubbing circles on the back of her hand. 

“What about what you said to Moe? _America’s pastime_.” 

“Yeah, I said it was America’s pastime. I didn’t say it was _my_ pastime.” 

“Why’d you hate it so much?” 

“Sports are not my forte.” A look flickered across her face that gave him the definite impression that she had some very embarrassing stories squirreled away in that head of hers. “And a girl can only put up with so many balls flying at her face.” 

Mac snorted into his noodles.

“You at least get to hit people with a ‘swattah’?” he smirked when he finally managed to catch his breath, adding in his best Moe Cronin at the end.

Ivy cracked out laughing. “No, you only hit people with a ‘swattah’ if you let go and some poor bastard gets in the way.” 

She was terrible at accents but cute as hell when she faltered midway through, bursting into a fit of giggles at how bad she was. Slipping her hand out from his, she added an enthusiastic enough mime to her awful impression that she nearly wobbled off her seat. 

“Nan-ni shimasho-ka?”

MacCready held up two fingers, grabbing the bowls from the protectron as soon as they were presented and sliding one over the Ivy. She tucked a knee up to her chest and balanced the fresh bowl on top of it, dragging patterns with her chopsticks as she turned a curious gaze on him. 

“Did you grow up here?” 

“Here?” Mac scoffed, looking around at the high, rainswept walls that held the real world at bay from the pampered residents of Diamond City. “No, I grew up in the Capital Wasteland.”

“Where’s that?” 

“Around D.C. You know, I keep forgetting you’re—”

“A relic?” She slid her half-empty bowl to him with a knowing smile, just as his empty one hit the counter. “I never visited D.C. You know, before.”

“Yeah well I don’t think your tourist guides would do it justice any more,” he laughed, thinking of the blasted to heck cityscape that was D.C—so much rubble that half the streets were impassible. It made Boston look perfectly preserved.

“Go on.”

Ivy swivelled to face MacCready, head cocked to one side, her hair spilling across her shoulder. Hidden beneath the shadows of his borrowed cap, it was difficult to make out her expression, but that smile was unmissable. He suddenly missed being able to cloak his more obvious thoughts within those shadows. 

Balanced precariously cross-legged on her stool, Ivy set her full attention on him. It was nothing like being caught in _his_ crosshairs—the way he stared people down and read their every tell. Her method couldn’t be more different. 

Just for a moment, Ivy could make someone feel like they were the only person in the world, that nothing in this universe could be more interesting to her than they were. Then they’d open up and the secrets would just tumble on out. 

She was getting better at doing things his way too, but this was where her skills lay, and they were dangerous. 

Mac tried to play it cool, started by telling her the little things, like growing up in Lamplight—but then she’d smiled and told him it was a pretty name, and his stomach somersaulted in a way that would’ve earned him a smack round his fat mungo head from his kid-self. It had to have been the noodles.

Then it all started to tumble out; he told her about the kids he grew up with, about all the dumb shit they used to get up to, about super mutants and slavers, and about Carys—the other vaultie in his life. He’d not talked about himself this much in years, if you ignored the bragging about himself anyway. 

MacCready couldn’t miss the flashes of concern when he talked about the rough stuff, the way Ivy bit her lip or chewed on the inside of her cheek, still trying to keep up a smile for his sake. How could he miss the signs when he was looking so closely? Soft girl was about 22 years too late to start worrying about him, not that it stopped her. 

“What’s that look for?” He reached over and tipped her chin up, her gaze having dropped properly for the first time since he started rambling.

“You were really out on your ear at 16?”

“15 actually. Do you really think I’d let anyone kick me out?” He’d left a week early. Mayor right up to his last day.

“Mac?!”

“Angel, I was fine” —enough— “we’re not all soft like you,” he teased. “I’m a Cap--”

“—a Capital Wasteland radroach, yes I remember. But that doesn't make it ok.”

“Whatcha gonna do, march down to D.C. and tell them to stop?” A lopsided grin spread across his face when Ivy rolled her eyes. “Make them take me back?”

“Maybe…” 

“You think they’ll listen?”

“They better,” she pouted. “I’m 200 years their elder.”

He could just imagine her trying to talk him back in, horrified at whatever foulmouthed kid was running the show now. That or, depending on how much he’d smart-mouthed her on the way there, she might just drag him by the ear to the gate and announce, _“I believe this belongs to you”_. Either way it’d be a sight.

“Good luck with that. If it’s anything like when I was mayor—”

“You were not!”

“I was too!”

Ives poked the brim of the cap up to meet his indignant gaze with an unwavering one of her own. The whole effect was spoiled by the flicker of a smirk he could see playing at the corner of her mouth—she was going to laugh.

“Did you get a fancy hat like Hancock?”

“No but if you don’t behave I’ll take that one back.” He made a half-hearted swipe at his cap but she ducked and pulled it down low so it almost covered her eyes. “Do I at least get to ask some questions now?”

“Nope.” Ivy relented and dragged the cap off her head, plonking it back on his—it squelched, still soaked from the storm. “I like hearing about you. And you still haven’t told me how a Capital Wasteland boy like you ended up in a shady Goodneighbor bar.” 

That was the million cap question. The dangerous territory where all his sins and failure lay. Filled with things he wasn’t ready to tell the beautiful woman sat beside him in case she stopped looking at him the way she was now. 

“That sounds like a lousy pick up line,” he groaned, trying to brush the question aside.

“Well how about I buy you a drink?” She dragged Quantum and a Nuka-Cherry out of her pack and brandished them in front of him. “So…” she pouted and batted her lashes. “What’s a boy like you doing in a place like this?” 

“Ugh.” MacCready huffed a sigh and peppered in a dramatic eye-roll for added effect, but he didn’t really mean it. It was getting a whole lot harder to say no to the spark in those eyes. 

“By the time I hit 17 it was frickin’ impossible to get decent merc jobs ‘round D.C.” He took the Quantum, knocked the lid off on the edge of the counter and took a swig. “The Brotherhood saw to that. It was their way or the highway.”

“Is that where they’re from then?”

“Oh, angel, they’re from all over. You just struck it lucky here.”

For now at least. There was already a squad squatting out of Cambridge. They were like radroaches, where there was one, you could be sure there’d be more. And Mac had a sinking feeling it wouldn’t be long before that stranded recon squad invited some friends along.

“Anyway, when the work dried up I got myself a job as a caravan guard and paid my way up here.” He shrugged, like it’d been that easy. He’d had to beg for that job, probably would’ve been turned down again too if it hadn’t been for Joe Savoldi taking pity on him. “I got set up here and started making a name for myself, but the caps were still tight.”

MacCready dipped his head, his noodles suddenly fascinating. “That’s when I got looked up by the Gunners, they wanted sharpshooters and they’d heard I was good. Wish I could say I didn’t know any better, but I should’ve… and, well, you know how that turned out.”

“You’ve had a busy life, huh.” Ivy’s soft murmur nudged him free of his thoughts.

“Nothin’ special these days.” Especially since any idiot seemed to be allowed to run a settlement in the ‘wealth.

“If you say so.” Ivy went silent, chewing on her bottom lip again. “When I was 17 I was worrying about getting good enough grades to get into college, not-- ”

“--not killing people for a living.” The words rang hollow in his throat.

Ever since he’d swallowed his pride and asked for her help, he’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Ivy to realise what she’d gotten herself involved with. For her to hear one more story about the Gunners from terrorised settlers and suddenly she’d look at him like a monster.

“What? God, no, that’s not what I—” Ivy grabbed his wrist, her other hand catching his cheek pivoting him to look at her. “I meant I didn’t have to be afraid. I wasn’t fighting to survive every day.”

She opened her mouth to speak then thought better of it, letting her hands fall into her lap—their eye contact broken.

“What?” he pressed, voice steady despite a sudden flurry of nerves. 

“I—it’s silly—”

They were huddled conspiratorially closely against the cold. Ivy had shifted _again_ while they spoke, like some nerves of her own kept her from settling. This time she’d wrapped one ankle around the leg of her stool, the other she’d tucked underneath Mac’s foot rest—her leg was caught between his knees. He nudged her to continue. 

“I was going to say it sounds awfully lonely,” she sighed, finally meeting his waiting gaze. 

MacCready reached out, threading his fingers through her hair until they came to rest on the back of her head—like she needed any encouragement to lean forwards, deep brown eyes flicking from his blue gaze to his lips.

“It’s getting better…”

“Nan-ni shimasho-ka?”

“Son-of-a—”

MacCready bit back the curse. For a moment Ivy rocked forward, resting her forehead against his—just not quite long enough for him to catch and kiss her.

She turned to Takahashi with a breathless laugh, “One more please, for my friend—” Ivy’s voice faltered the second MacCready freed his fingers from her hair, glancing back at him as though she mourned the momentary loss. 

Buoyed by the look, he dared to let his hand slide down her back, fingertips tracing a line down her spine. Eyes trained on her, he drowned out every distraction around them, focussing on the way air hitched in her throat, the shivers running through her skin beneath his fingers, the way her eyelids fluttered closed at his touch—completely without her say so, and the curse caught on her lips when she realised they did. 

_Damn it._

“I—I’ll get the first round in.” 

He’d never seen Ivy so flustered as she nudged his legs aside, to squeeze past him, the flush in her cheeks practically crimson under lantern light. He’d have smirked and teased her mercilessly if he hadn’t desperately wanted her to stay.

“I said I’d pay tonight,” MacCready managed, casting a scowl at Takahashi—his fourth bowl of noodles going untouched.

As a second thought before she darted out into the rain, she slipped scarf from around her shoulders and tucked it back into place around Mac’s neck, her eyes never leaving his while she absently smoothed out the collar of his duster. 

Ivy stepped out into the downpour, tilting her head back to look up into the sky, dragging her fingers through her hair like it was some sort of well-needed cold shower. With a slight shake of her head, she looked back at MacCready, damp hair tumbling messily around her face.

“I’ll see you at the bar.”

She turned and headed into the night, leaving Mac with his rapidly cooling noodles and a robot he was seriously considering shooting.

Like hell he was going to leave things like that.

MacCready dashed out into the rain following Ivy's retreating form, for once not caring as he splashed through ankle-deep puddles, trying to make it across the market before she disappeared ‘round the corner toward the Dugout and any chance he had was lost. Hurrying his pace he caught up to her in a few strides, reaching out to wrap his fingers loosely around her wrist.

Ivy turned at his touch. “...Bobby?”

Letting his grip draw her back towards him, Mac’s other hand found its home in her hair. Fingers tangled in the spot they’d left just moments before, and before he could overthink it, MacCready leant forward and pressed his lips to hers, stealing a lingering kiss from her lips—lips that were softer than he’d ever admit he imagined, and warm despite the cold of the storm beating down around them. He eagerly swallowed the deliciously soft _oh_ that escaped her mouth.

After a stunned second, Ivy pressed another heady kiss to his mouth, her fingertips tracing patterns along his jaw, sending ripples of shivers down his spine when she let her nails drag gently against the rough stubble on his neck.

Even with his eyes closed, he’d know that wicked smile anywhere, and he was ready to capture her lips again when she pushed up onto her tiptoes and wound her arms around his neck. Any excuse to hold her closer was fine by Mac, and he coiled an arm tightly around her waist, pulling her against him to stop her feet slipping on the soaking ground—earning an intoxicating hum of approval from Ivy.

Usually MacCready hated the fake taste of cherries, but that lingering sweetness on the tip of her tongue tasted like heaven. He didn’t even complain when she took off his hat, raking her fingers through his hair in return for the mess he was making of hers.

Breathless, Ivy was the first to pull away. Slipping back out of his grip, she looked up at MacCready through dark lashes framed by raindrops, the glow of neon signs catching in her hair and reflecting in her eyes, lips swollen from kisses— _his_ kisses. She was beautiful.

“Drinks?” The words danced on lips that wore a stunned smile.

He tried to answer but she’d already curled close again, starting to pepper his jaw with soft, light kisses, and every time he opened his mouth to speak she’d kiss him again.

He felt drunk already.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, I'm sorry I've taken so long to update but I hope the wait was worth it! 
> 
> They smooched! They finally smooched! And it wasn't in the plan!! Apparently they don't give me a say in what I write anymore.
> 
> This fic was a bit of a labor of love (and stress). Like Complicated and Gunners & Grudges, it was a story I'd had certain scene in my head for since before I started writing the series properly, which meant again it took me a little longer set those scenes free from my head in a form that lived up to the original idea. Thank you for bearing with me. 
> 
> And a big thank you to my friends for keeping me going on this one, especially Asaara - you have been a support ecosystem every time I had a mini-meltdown. <3
> 
> Thank you so much for taking the time read! If you enjoyed this (and haven't already) please check out the rest of my 'Then I Met You' series. If you enjoy the fics and would like to see more of Ivy and MacCready, then pop over to tumblr - my fallout blog is @third-rail-vip - where I've got plenty of screenshots and art of these two.


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